The Smoking Gun
by adangeli
Summary: She was the most qualified and the least entangled – the other female cops had families. And the guy they were going after had a reputation for being quick with his gun. Part 3 of the In Washington Series. AU


It wasn't her first choice, the flowery blouse, but her handler didn't give her a choice at all. Gloria just thrust the clothing at her and then left the room so Sam could change. Why, Sam didn't know, because she was just going to have to stand there, with her shirt gaping open so Gloria could tape a wire to her chest anyway...

Outside the room she could hear the heavy steps of Jack's pacing. He wasn't happy with this turn of events. Not happy at all. Their partnership might be barely two weeks old, but she'd already learned that he was awfully protective of the things he cared about and she, by virtue of being his partner, she supposed, counted as one of the things he cared about.

Still, the thought of being something he cared about gave her a little thrill.

She knocked on her side of the door when she was dressed and Gloria came bustling back in with a roll of tape hooked over the fingers of one hand and a mic and wire in the other.

"You worn one of these before?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Gloria slid the mic pack into the back of Sam's blouse and hooked it on her bra and then looped the wire under her right arm. She taped the mic to the swell of Sam's right breast just above the fabric of her bra. "You know to stay away from other sound equipment?"

"Yes."

"Your partner's out there. Wearing a hole in my floor."

Sam couldn't help but grin. She buttoned up her blouse. "He's a little worried."

"A little?" Gloria raised an eyebrow. "Honey, if that man's a little worried, then I'm a beauty queen."

Sam took in Gloria's countenance. Okay, Jack was pretty damn worried.

In the anteroom, Jack stood with his hands on his hips, staring at her when she came out of the dressing room. He gave her a once over from head to toe that made her insides turn over with awareness. "You look like a housewife."

"Good."

He grunted noncommittally. Apparently he wasn't fond of the look on her. She wasn't fond of the flowery blouse, soft mom-jeans, and flat moccasin shoes, either, but she was supposed to be blending in, not standing out. And apparently she generally stood out a little bit.

Gloria came out of the room.

"Can we do something about her eyes?" Jack asked.

"What about them?" Gloria wanted to know.

"I don't know," he said with a helpless gesture. "They're too... blue."

Gloria smirked. "We can't do anything about her eyes Detective O'Neill."

He shot Gloria a sideways glance that Sam had learned to interpret as displeasure and turned and stalked out of the room.

"Thank you!" she called out, and followed her errant partner at a much more subdued pace. She caught up with him at their black SUV. He was leaning against the driver's side door waiting for her.

"You don't have to do this, you know?"

"I know I don't have to, but it makes sense for it to be me." And it did. She was the most qualified and the least entangled – the other female cops had families. And the guy they were going after had a reputation for being quick with his gun. And he liked soccer moms for drug runners so here she was.

"He's never going to buy it." He said.

She tried not to feel affronted, but it didn't take. "You said yourself I looked like a housewife."

"You don't walk like a housewife."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You walk like you're packing heat."

"Well, usually, I am!"

He grinned then. And so did she. Tension disbursed. "Just look a little less like you could kick his ass without even breaking a sweat, huh?"

She beamed at him, she liked that that's what he thought about her. "Okay."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It didn't quite go down that way, though. She ended up with a graze wound on her upper arm and a hovering partner for her trouble. The gun, that Martin "Big Poppa" Thompson shot her with, lay on the floor, still practically smoking considering the speed at which Jack and the cavalry had come streaming into the bar.

She tried not notice how good Jack looked dressed all in black with his gloves on and his black sunglasses still on his face despite the dark of the bar – it had been sunny outside – but it was a welcome reprieve from the pain in her arm.

"Hey, can we get some medics over here?" he called out, his hand gripping just below the wound, gently but firmly. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You got shot."

"It's a flesh wound."

"I forgot to tell you to be careful."

"You think that would have stopped this from happening?"

"I don't know, couldn't have hurt."

They were interrupted by the paramedics who shouldered him out of the way to see to her arm. She was wrapped up and encouraged to go the hospital.

"I'll drive her," Jack said.

"We've got the ambulance here," the younger of the two guys said, apparently trying to convince Jack that the ambulance was the way to go.

"I'll drive her," Jack repeated, grit in his voice.

"Sure," the kid said, appeasement in his tone. Then the paramedics were gone.

In the SUV she told him, "I don't want to go the hospital, I want to go home."

"But-"

"What are they going to do for me at the hospital that the paramedics didn't do? It's a flesh wound. Just take me home, Jack." She was tired, the adrenaline of the case and of being shot had worn off. And, she was a little nauseated. She just wanted her couch and a glass of ginger ale. She helped him navigate to her little apartment.

He parked in the emergency vehicle lane and threw his badge on the dash. He threw her a sheepish smile. "What? I'm not going to be long? Am I?" There was that almost hopeful sound, from two weeks before when he'd asked her for coffee.

She shook her head no before she could nod her head yes and invite him up to stay.

He did walk her up to her apartment, walked her in, too. It was strange having him inside the place. He was all black in her mostly white and light blue surroundings. He stood out. He looked dark and he felt dangerous and she found she just wanted to wrap herself around him, find out if his darkness could dissipate inside something softer. She wondered if she was softer or if she was just play-acting inside a flowered blouse.

"I should change."

"I should go."

"Would you make me a glass of ginger ale while I..." she gestured towards her bedroom. She didn't want him to go just yet. And it was the only way she could think to get him to stay.

"Uh... yeah."

She heard him moving around in her kitchen while she changed out of her ruined blouse and borrowed jeans and moccasins that didn't fit her personality. She slid into some soft pants and softer socks and a sweatshirt that had her California police academy's logo on the front. She left her bra on the floor of the bedroom with the wire pack still attached. It had long since been shut off, her possible indiscretion with her partner in her apartment hadn't been recorded.

They met back up in her living room and she noticed that he noticed her braless situation pretty much right away and it made her feel, well, a little powerful. It made her arm hurt less, and it made the nauseated feeling ratchet back.

"Here," he said, thrusting the hand not holding the glass at her, "I found some ibuprofen in

your kitchen. Thought it might help."

She held her hand out and he dropped three of the little pills into her palm. It wasn't a huge dose, but it wasn't a small one and it would probably be enough to back the pain down to a sting. She put the pills on her tongue then reached for the glass. He put it against her palm. She kept her eyes on him as she drank.

Somewhere along the line he'd taken off the gloves. More's the pity. He looked good in them. The sunglasses were gone, too, but the sun had gone down sometime between the spectacular end of their case and their arrival at her apartment. She sighed. He was really handsome. She wondered if he knew that or if he was one of those men who had no clue.

"What's wrong?"

"I think I need to sit down," she said, rather than go into what was on her mind.

"Oh, yeah." He led her over to the couch by her elbow and got her all settled in amongst the pillows. "You want anything? You hungry?"

"No." Her stomach flopped over at the thought of food.

"You're gonna have to eat sometime."

"Tomorrow," she said in what she hoped was a compromising tone.

"Tonight."

"Ugh."

"Sam."

"Jack."

He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. "Why don't you sit here and... convalesce for a while. I'll go, take care of some paperwork. And I'll come back later with some of that soup you like from Wah Sing?"

She did like the Hot and Sour soup. And he remembered that? They'd only eaten there once... And wait! He was coming back?

How to not sound too eager? "You don't have to do that."

"Carter," he said with exasperation. "You think I'm not gonna check on you? You were shot for crying out loud."

"It really is just a flesh wound." There was a line between trying not to sound too eager and actually talking him out of coming back and she was about to cross it, she was afraid.

"I'm coming back with soup," he said, picking up his keys and walking back towards the door. "Watch some television. Take a nap. I'll be back in a few hours."

She smiled, "Okay. See you in a few."

"Okay."

She contemplated shaving her legs for most of those three hours.

She was still trying to talk herself into doing it and all that it meant when his knock sounded on her door. She blushed just because she'd been caught thinking what she'd been thinking. Sort of.

He waited politely for her to answer the door but he made himself at home in her apartment as soon as she invited him inside. He was rummaging through her cabinets for a bowl before she'd even sauntered into the kitchen behind him. He was big in her little kitchen and watching him move around in the space did funny things to her. Warm, liquid things. He found the bowl, poured the soup in and then he was attacking drawers looking for a spoon.

When he'd prepared her dinner to his satisfaction he turned and found her leaning against the door frame watching him. "What?" he asked automatically.

"Nothing. Thanks for the soup."

He shrugged. "Where do you want it?"

A litany of dirty answers flitted through her head and colored her cheeks. He looked at her oddly and she wondered if they'd played out on her face. "Dining room."

They sat at her little dinette set, her curled up in one of the chairs, him sprawled in one, like it could barely contain him. Her eyes were drawn towards his open hips and groin. She looked away quickly when his eyes followed the path of hers down his body and he shifted one leg, puckering the jean material over his crotch, hiding his secrets from her view. She wondered what secrets he had to hide.

"How's the arm?"

"Sore."

"Getting shot sucks."

"Yeah, it does." She took a bite of her soup. "Have you been shot?"

"Twice. Through and through," he tapped his upper arm, "and lodged in behind a rib. Shoulda been wearing a vest," he laid a hand against his side. "I was real lucky. Kawalsky's quick thinking saved my ass on that one."

"He was a good partner?"

"Yeah, he was."

Sam nodded. She wondered if he missed Kawalsky. If he thought he got a raw deal with her – a green detective. A girl. But he didn't seem to mind her too much.

"What's on your mind, Carter?"

"Does it bother you? That they stuck you with me?"

He looked at her, his brow furrowed. "They didn't stick me with you. You needed a partner, I needed a partner... that's how things worked out."

"Wouldn't you have rather had someone with experience?"

"You're smart, Sam. You're a good detective, even if you don't have experience. You've proven that already. Getting shot, aside," he said, and he nudged her good shoulder with his knuckles.

She nodded, ducked her head, tried not to give into the little tendrils of desire that furled out from where he touched her so innocently. "Thanks."

While she ate her soup he told her about how the rest of the case shook out, about Big Poppa's interrogation and how they got the names and locations of some lower level drug runners as well. Neither she nor Jack had had to be involved with that part of it. She was basically just the bait. But that didn't mean there wasn't a stack of paperwork that hadn't been waiting on Jack back at the precinct that was now waiting on her signature when she went in the next day.

Eventually, they moved over the couch and he surprised her by sitting closer to her than to the other end of the couch and stretching his arm out along the back of the couch so his fingertips caught the ends of her hair. She spent the whole time they sat there talking wondering if it was by design or happenstance and she couldn't really concentrate on their conversation because she kept waiting for the feeling of his fingertips in her hair.

The first time she felt it she didn't see even a hint of anything in his eyes so she convinced herself that it was all in her head. The second time there was a glimmer of something playful in his eye. The third time there was a smirk around his mouth and she finally jerked her head away with a "Stop it," and a giggle.

It made him flash a smile at her that made her want to kiss him so, so badly that she found herself leaning towards him in the moment before she realized exactly what she was doing and stopped herself.

The whole evening had felt a little bizarre, more like a date than like she'd been sitting around with her partner, but that was what she'd been doing – sitting with her partner. She wasn't supposed to kiss her partner. Even if some people did actually do that sort of thing, helpfully played in the back of her head.

Apparently, though, he was none the wiser. Or maybe exactly the wiser as to what happened, because he was smoothly standing and bidding her goodnight. "I'll let you get some sleep," he was saying.

"Thanks for the soup. Thanks for everything," she said.

"Anytime," he said.

At the door he turned and gave her a look that told her he knew exactly what had almost happened between them, that the kiss she had almost given him had nearly been a two way street. Oh good heavens. They were in trouble.


End file.
